What matters is, I tucked them away; aware of their power but not of what they were. Honored, confused, horrified, excited.
#71. And in writing about this grief – grief for him, and grief for myself as an artist – I renovated my relationship to art.

September 2022

And at every juncture, each time I saw a doctor or a specialist or a nurse or a phlebotomist, they’d ask “And the pain?”
1

July 2022

“It is forgetfulness that is the fundamental problem, not memory.” — Patrick Modiano
2

June 2022

In a way, while the sale was open, while the cello remained unsold, part of my father remained alive. Far from view, over the crest of the horizon, but…
1

May 2022

“Hey boychik,” the refined voice on the other side of the world says. “How’s school? How’s soccer? How’s the cello?”
1
Perhaps there was comfort in the constriction, a perverse safety in the pressure. Perhaps the door served as a weighted blanket – protection from…
1

April 2022

That was the drug, I think. That liminality, that escape, that floating, etherial disconnection — or re-connection. I wonder: how many lives did he live…
1
Tears, too, like any precipitation, find their way out of one sea and into another. It all gets washed away.
1

March 2022

This is a memory. But it is also a thousand memories. It can be repeated so many times, only the fruit changes, the game we play, the location where we…
2

February 2022

Somewhere, a dog barks. Another responds. Chickens, twenty yards to the right, shake and pluck and cluck in their open pen. Or maybe I’ve just added…
1
If he had lived a fabulously long life, my grandfather would have turned 95 fifteen days later.
1